The Hotel

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  “Greg, Mom and I are going to sit down. I’ll text you when the pizza arrives.”

  We split from Ava and Greg and worked our way through the hustling and bustling crowd of children and other parents. “Will you keep Ava while we go to the police station and give statements?” I asked. “It shouldn’t take long, but I don’t want to take Ava.”

  “Of course. She’ll probably want to play a few more games anyway. Then I’ll just take her back to your house and wait for you guys.”

  “Thank you.” I gazed into my mother’s soft gray eyes. “Mom, I’m incredibly grateful you were there for me these last few days. I really appreciate you.”

  She tutted. “Think nothing of it. I’m just so glad Greg’s alive and there was nothing to this silly cheating stuff you had in your mind. I told you I didn’t think he’d ever be unfaithful to you.” When I laughed loudly, she gave me a stern look. “What’s so funny?”

  “You haven’t ‘told-me-so’ in a long time.” I chuckled. “I really deserved it this time though, didn’t I?”

  She grinned. “Yes, you did. You gave all of us a big scare.”

  Our piping hot pizza, served on a big round tin, was placed on the table and I sent Greg a text to let him know to come and eat.

  Ava was happy to stay with Gigi while we went to the police department to confirm that Greg was alive and well. After goodbye kisses and hugs to Ava and my mother, from both me and Greg, we left the racket and headed across town to the downtown police station. There we met up with Lucas, who was already awaiting our arrival just inside the double glass doors on a nearby bench.

  “Man, it’s great to see you,” Lucas said jumping to his feet and greeting Greg man-style, simply pounding on each other’s backs.

  “It’s good to be home,” Greg said grinning at his friend.

  After announcing our presence with a receptionist, Greg was separated from me. Detectives Sutton and Andrews led me and Lucas to an interview room farther down the hall. When we were seated, the detectives made sure I was positioned in the corner chair, as if I had been a bad girl and was placed into time out. Not only that, this time, the table was on the other side of the room, instead of between us. Det. Andrews crowded up next to me, leaving me little room to breathe.

  “Okay, so let’s get right down to it,” Det. Sutton began, folding his tall frame into the remaining chair and putting on the same gruff expression as he had before. “I think we all know now that the body wasn’t your husband. Of course, identifying the dead man was a bit tricky since we were under the impression it was Gregory Mills. Now that we know it wasn’t, we’ve been able to formally identify the victim as Paul Jensen.” He gazed between me and Lucas. “Mystery solved ... at least on who was murdered.” He rubbed his hand across his chin. “Now we’re left with who did it.” He sat back in his chair and turned his attention to me. “We know you did it, Mrs. Mills. Let’s just skip the long-involved interview and you tell us what happened.”

  “I didn’t kill Paul Jensen!” I cried out. “Is this a joke?”

  “My God,” Lucas belted out. “First you thought she killed her husband. Now you think she killed Paul Jensen. What kind of a dog-and-pony show are you guys running down here?”

  “Come now, Mr. Baker, surely you must realize her motive for killing Mr. Jensen is even greater than killing her husband.”

  “Enlighten me,” Lucas said through gritted teeth.

  “Okay, let’s see, where should I start since there are so many reasons? Hmm,” he pondered, running a hand through his dark brown hair. “I’ll start with the weakest reason first. When we spoke with Mrs. Jensen, she claimed she and her husband generally got along well with Mr. Mills. However,” he glared at me, “she portrays you as having always been cold toward them, as if you didn’t like them. Now while that’s hardly motive to kill someone, it sets the tone on your relationship with the victim.”

  “Truly weak,” Lucas said. “A jury will never buy it. What else do you think you have?”

  “Well, I told you I was starting out weak, but let’s build up. Mr. Mills invested a large chunk of money with Mr. Jensen and, alas, the investment turned sour. Or maybe it didn’t. Mr. Jensen’s business practice is being investigated. It seems he was taking in numerous investments, keeping the money and then telling his clients the stocks plummeted. To put it simply, he was embezzling the money to afford his lavish lifestyle. We think Mrs. Mills found out she’d been taken to the cleaners and became abundantly angry with Mr. Jensen and killed him.”

  “No,” I objected. “I didn’t know about the investment until Greg came home from Vegas and disclosed having given funds to Paul.”

  “Well, so you say,” Det. Sutton said. “We say you did know, and you were livid about the Jensen’s living a life of luxury, while you two struggled to make ends meet.”

  “What else do you think you have?” Lucas inquired in a sarcastic tone.

  “This,” he said pulling out a copy of the recent complaint I’d filed. “I’d say this is a top-notch motive. It seems Mrs. Mills recently found out that Mr. Jensen watched her eight-year-old daughter take a bath and then dried her off. Now, Mr. Baker, I’m sure you must know that this allegation of child molestation would be a difficult case to prove in a court of law. It would boil down to the word of a vindictive woman pitted against a respected member of an elite community. He’d be claiming no such thing happened and Mrs. Mills was only getting back at him for swindling her out of thousands of dollars. In other words, Mr. Jensen would claim it was a vicious lie perpetrated by Mrs. Mills to get revenge over losing their hard-earned money. Sour grapes, so to speak.” He paused for a moment. “And, even if everything in the report happened, there’s no penetration, no touching, not even exposing. I’m not disagreeing with you as to the inappropriateness, assuming it happened. And for argumentative purposes, I’m going to believe it did. However, I think we both know Mr. Jensen would’ve been able to easily beat the charges. Mrs. Mills, being married to a lawyer, likely knew that. I think she couldn’t bear to even consider what he did to her daughter and then him getting away with it.” He turned his face to me. “So, you made sure he paid the ultimate price. Didn’t you, Mrs. Mills?”

  “I didn’t know about the bathtub incident until after Paul was dead. My daughter had maintained she was frightened to bathe alone because of a scary movie.”

  “Again, that’s just your word as to when you found out the information. It’s more likely you knew your husband went to that seminar and, all along, you knew it was Mr. Jensen who had your husband’s car. We think you lured him to that hotel and then beat him to death.”

  “I heard a girl in there,” I reminded him. “He went there on his own accord.”

  “Again, this is your version.”

  “What about DNA in the sheets?” Lucas asked.

  Det. Sutton shook his head. “Too much of it. There’s no way to tell.”

  “What does that mean?” Lucas queried, furrowing his brow.

  “It seems the sheets aren’t regularly changed. And lucky room number 7 gets a lot of business, if you know what I mean. There were a lot of different bodily fluids in that bed. We’re only going by the blood to match up with Mr. Jensen.” He turned back to me. “Mrs. Mills do you have a key fob to your husband’s car?”

  “Yes,” I answered, then felt my answer was going to incriminate me even further.

  “Guess what’s missing from your husband’s car ... and guess what was found under the victim’s bed...”

  Please, please don’t say a tire iron.

  “A tire iron,” he finished with. “The tests are still being conducted. But we know the murder weapon was something metal ... like a tire iron.”

  My heart skipped several beats remembering how I’d thought about using a tire iron. “No, my clothes would’ve been a bloody mess if I’d done something like that,” I protested.

  “We think you went to that hotel, checked into the room next to the one you lured Mr. Jens
en to and made sure the clerk saw what you were wearing. Then you went into your room and changed clothes into something you brought along with you. Then you took the tire iron from your husband’s car and went next door to Mr. Jensen’s room, confronted him about the money and your daughter and then you killed him. Once you did it, you cleaned the hell out of that room. Wiped everything away, including the tire iron.” He leaned forward over the table, getting closer to my face. “Except you forgot a couple of little things. You left your prints on the light switch and on the paper from where you opened the little bar of soap. It’s always in the tiniest of details,” he gloated. “After that you went back to your room, leaving a bloody trail with your shoes. Then you cleaned yourself up, the trail of footprints and everything you touched in your room. You put your bloody clothes into a separate trash bag from the one you gave to P.I. Marshall. We think you went down to the ATM to be filmed in your clean clothes, but you dumped the bloody ones somewhere along the way.” He leaned back in his chair as if satisfied with his theory. “I’ll bet you thought it was genius to turn in what you presumed everyone would think you were wearing. Didn’t you? And by renting the room where a dead man lay, you were assured the garbage was long ago taken to the city dump and that ample time would pass by before a search could be conducted. But there was another set of clothes, wasn’t there?”

  “No, that’s not at all what happened,” I argued. “I thought it was my husband in there.” I went through my side of the story again.

  Then they went through their side again.

  “What about his wife?” Lucas threw in. “She was royally upset when she found out about her husband’s condo and his young honey, as she put it. She probably killed him.”

  “No, I don’t think so. She wouldn’t have had access to the trunk of the car in order to get the tire iron. And I don’t think she entered her husband’s room, asked for the key, told her husband she’d be right back, and then returned with the tire iron to beat him to death. I just don’t see it happening that way.”

  “Then the young honey ... what’s her name?” Lucas asked, directing the question to me.

  “Felicia Winslow,” I answered.

  “She did it,” Lucas accused. “She lured him there and then killed him.”

  “What’s her motive?” Detective Andrews asked. “Mr. Jensen was giving her the sun, the moon and the stars. He had her convinced he loved her and not his bitchy wife. And she was totally enamored with him. When we talked to her, she appeared devastated to hear he was murdered. She took it real hard. Genuine tears if you asked me.”

  Our conversation was a round-robin for the next two hours. Finally, Lucas put a stop to it. “That’s it. We’re done here. Let’s go, Emily.”

  I stood rapidly, ready to go find Greg and leave this place. “I’m more than ready,” I agreed.

  “Now hang on there, just a minute,” Det. Sutton said standing from his chair. “Emily Mills, you’re under arrest for the murder of Paul Jensen and for failure to report a felony.” He read me my Miranda Warnings. “Place your hands behind your back.” Then he slapped a pair of handcuffs on my hands, the sound of them ratcheting against my wrists brought tears to my eyes.

  “Lucas,” I cried out, unbelieving of what was happening. My chest tightened to the point I couldn’t breathe. “No, I didn’t kill him. I didn’t,” I insisted. My whole body began to shake, and it felt as if I was going to faint. “Lucas,” I whimpered, feeling as if my legs were going to betray me.

  Lucas reached to hold me, to keep me from sliding to the ground, but the detectives kept him at bay. “Just hang in there, Emily. Don’t worry. We’ll have you bonded out in no time. In the meantime, don’t say anything to anyone.”

  Yanked from the room, I nodded over my shoulder at Lucas’s stunned face. After being dragged down a hallway, I was processed through the intake division, including being searched, TB tested, fingerprinted again, photographed for a mug shot and then hauled into a jail cell. And now I was wearing a drab orange and white horizontally striped uniform with tan flip flops.

  My cell, tiny in size, came with two beds attached to each side of the wall and in the back was a nasty-looking toilet and a dripping sink. My cellmate only grunted at my entrance and then ignored me, which was fine with me as I didn’t want to end up in a jailhouse brawl. During the next few hours, while sitting on a hard bed, I intermittently cried and stared at the filthy tiled floor. Too stunned to think properly, I couldn’t believe what had happened. Would I be convicted of murder and sent away to prison for life, or worse, the death penalty? And to think, I thought this was a simple statement about, gee, my husband was alive, and they needed to go find the real killer. Apparently, the police thought I was the real killer. How did this all go so wrong? And how did I make it right?

  ◆◆◆

  It was over three hours in the tiny, stifling room before a uniformed officer came to the cell door and electronically opened it. “Emily Mills, you’ve made bail.”

  “Thank goodness,” I said hauling myself up and following her to the front entrance where I found Greg and Lucas waiting for me.

  Outside the police station, the evening sun was warming the cement sidewalk and throwing the heat back on us. Lucas and Greg had discussed my situation for the last three or more hours and were ready to say their goodbyes. While I thanked Lucas for his representation, I leaned against the red-bricked exterior wall, needing something to support my unreliable legs.

  “Okay, Emily, we’ll get a game plan, and we’ll talk later,” Lucas told me with a giant hug. “Don’t worry about this. Everything will turn out just fine.”

  My lips were a pinched line and all I managed was a nod.

  “Let’s go,” Greg said, taking my hand and guiding me to the car. On the way there, he asked, “Tell me the truth, did you do it? When you told me about what Paul did to Ava, I wanted to kill him myself. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I can’t be called to testify against you since it’s considered privileged communication between spouses.”

  “You can’t seriously think I killed someone ... even Paul,” I said in an incredulous voice.

  When Greg failed to answer me, I broke free from his handhold and picked up my pace for the car. Reaching it, Greg beeped the key to unlock it and I crawled inside, slamming the door behind me. Staring at the windshield, my heart filled with a mixture of relief and anger. Relief because I was out of jail, but anger because my husband had even let thoughts of me killing someone enter his brain.

  “I’m sorry honey. That was a stupid question. Of course, you didn’t kill anyone ... even Paul. Please forgive me.” He started the engine and turned on the air, leaving the car in park. “Please Emily, I don’t want us to be mad at each other. It’s going to take both of us working together to figure this out. Please honey.”

  Like a filled water balloon reaching capacity, I exploded with a burst of tears. “Oh Greg, what’s going to happen?” Then I threw myself across the console and into his waiting arms, letting uncontrollable sobs rack my body.

  ◆◆◆

  Mother was waiting at our house and Ava was playing in her room. Greg had already called and told her about what happened, including my being charged with murder and having been arrested. She met us at the door with a long face. “Oh Emily,” she said in a tortured voice.

  “Momma,” I cried out like a little girl and let her embrace me. But, unlike when I was a child and she made everything better, this time, even her soothing pats on my back did little to ease the fear growing inside me.

  We went over everything that happened and then she left, giving Greg and me some time to come up with a game plan. I watched through the curtains as she drove away. The moment she was out of sight, I caved, the pressured circumstances getting the better of me. Rushing upstairs, I fled to our bedroom. Closing the door behind me, I crossed the room. The bed creaked as I threw myself on it.

  Greg was right behind me. “Emily, honey,” he called out and then entere
d, closing it back so Ava knew not to come in. “Baby, it’s going to be fine. We’ll figure this out.” The bed creaked again as he joined me and gathered me in his arms.

  “What if we don’t!” My voice came out too loud. Ava was going to hear me. “What if we don’t?” I said in a lower tone. “Murder ... I’ve been charged with murder. You, of all people, know what a guilty verdict could mean.”

  “No, we’re going to figure out what happened, even if I have to hire every private detective in this town. I will not let you go down for this.” He trailed a finger down the side of my face. “I’m not losing you, and neither is Ava. We will get those charges dismissed.”

  While I desperately wanted to believe him, in my heart, I knew it was going to take more than every private detective in town. It was going to take a miracle.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  (Sunday)

  After a nightmare filled night, I woke to an empty bed and distant noises coming from downstairs. Sluggishly I dragged myself up, pulled on a robe and wobbled down the stairs and into the kitchen. Once again, Greg was preparing our breakfast.

  “Good morning,” Greg greeted in a pleasant voice, like there wasn’t a dark cloud hanging over our heads. His unruly morning hair made him look ever so sexy and I couldn’t help but smile at him.

  “What?” he questioned with a tilt of his head to one side and a turning fork clasped in his right hand.

  “Nothing,” I insisted, kissing the top of Ava’s head and then working my way over to my handsome husband and giving him a good morning kiss.

  “Watch yourself,” he warned as bacon hissed and popped, splattering grease over the stove. “I wouldn’t want you to get burned.”

  Making myself useful, I cracked the eggs, seasoned them and scrambled them in a separate skillet. Ava was at the table, yacking her head off about what she wanted to do today. “Can we?” I heard at one point but had no idea what she had asked.